


Black like your Soul

by KuraiTsuky



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Demon Hunters, Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Blood and Violence, Dark Fantasy, M/M, Other, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:02:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23748796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuraiTsuky/pseuds/KuraiTsuky
Summary: “You’ve grown old.” His prey grunts, shaking away the remains of his window from its clothing. Bret turns away from his table eyeing Helmsley who unlike himself, hasn’t seemed to age in over thirty years.
Relationships: Bret Hart/Shawn Michaels
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	Black like your Soul

**Author's Note:**

> It's inspired by both Supernatural and Grimm.   
> I also took inspiration from the death of Abraham Setrakian in The Strain tv series, so if your recognize Bret's actions in the beginning, it's from that, and if you haven't seen the show, I highly recomend it, or at least look that scene up, it's a work of art.   
> On to the fic,

“You’ve grown old.” His prey grunts, shaking away the remains of his window from its clothing. Bret turns away from his table eyeing Helmsley who unlike himself, hasn’t seemed to age in over thirty years.

“It must irk you, that what finally got me was Time and not you.” he says with a mocking smirk raising his chin, it’s not lost on him how the Vampire’s eyes follow the small gesture with rapt attention. If it were almost anyone else he might have felt flattered. Bret knows the fight will be short and painful, there is no way he’s winning it. With time Helmsley has only grown in power, while the many kicks life had in store for him have been enough to render him a pale shadow of the hunter he used to be.

It doesn’t matter, he thinks with a bitter taste in his mouth, just because he’s going to die, it doesn’t mean he’s going to make it easy on this monster. He throws his knives, and then rushes the beast, still strong enough to make it move backwards a couple of steps. But it isn’t near enough, the other’s fists fall on his back like a couple of battering rams, as a knee buries itself on his midsection, no doubt breaking a couple of ribs.

He’d predicted a quick fight but it’s almost insulting how fast he ends up dangling by the hand on his neck. Bret doesn’t listen as the other gloats, Helmsley was always as gracious in victory as he was in defeat. Soon, he thinks, trying to calm his heart just a bit, it wouldn’t do to have another heart attack just now. The old hunter watches in trepidation as the Vampire’s fangs elongate, grotesquely deforming the human factions, altering them into a mirror of the true nature of the creature. It’s eyes, completely black bore into his, and it takes a lot of effort on Bret’s part to feign the fear he doesn’t truly feel.

He has locked eyes with things far scarier than this. If it weren’t for their shared history, he wouldn’t even give him the pleasure.

Bret falls onto his carpet when the hand lets go, his breath heavy, his heartbeat in his ears, as the Vampire drags him to his unsteady feet by his hair, undoing the bun Nat so diligently made, in the process. He doesn’t struggle as Helmsley, hand still in his hair, forces his head backwards. But as the other sinks his teeth on his throat, he can no longer contain his smile.

He wins.

  
  


Helmsley gorges himself in his blood and Bret lets him, light-headed but not enough not to savour his triumph. After a moment, the Vampire tears its fangs out, and recoils as Bret falls onto the floor, a victorious smile painted on his lips. He watches from the carpet, being slowly stained by his blood, as the Vampire chokes and struggles. It’s long limbs flailing while he coughs, short of breath, clawing at its own throat. Black veins showing under its paling skin. Helmsley falls to his knees, one hand groping the poor carpet and tearing it to shreds, the other still at its throat as dark blood begins to pour from its mouth, its eyes looking in confusion at him as tears of blood run down its cheeks.

The bite has render him mute, Bret is aware, but perhaps his smile is an even better taunt than any words could manage to be. As he falls, choking on his own tainted blood, betrayed by his own body, the last thing the Vampire sees is that smile.

Helmsley’s body twitches for a few minutes before going completely still. A drying husk on his floor. By his side, Bret breathes a rattled breath, becoming more and more light-headed as his heart both pumps the poison further into his body and his blood out of it. At least, nothing hurts any longer, the old Demon hunter thinks, he’s had quite a life if he says so himself. He’d never expected to live past forty, this past twenty years have been a gift he hadn’t thought he deserved. He leaves fewer regrets than victories, so all in all, not the worst way to go.

Bret closes his eyes, sleep tempting him, and the last thing he thinks of is lying blue eyes and golden waves of hair.

  
  


  
  


“And they say you lack imagination.”

Bret opens his eyes alarmed and tries to move in the direction of the voice, his mind becoming frantic as he recognizes that voice he shouldn’t be hearing. His neck hurts just a little too much, and his limbs are too heavy to respond, for a blessed moment of silence he’s able to convince himself he’s hearing things due to the blood-loss, then the figure steps into frame and all hope of it being a hallucination conjured by his dying brain is lost.

Shawn puts the chair down on top of Hunter’s corpse, the dark blood congealing around him, and looks at Bret’s prone form. His white hair lays around his head almost like a halo, he looks the same, he thinks for a moment. No matter the wrinkles, the bags under his eyes, the way his now pale skin has begun to sag distorting the once sharp line of his jaw, Shawn could recognize this face anywhere, anytime. He sits down on the chair undoing the button on his blazer, he’d decided to dress for the occasion, and watches for few moments as the crimson liquid leaks from the terrible wound on Bret’s throat. He looks on as those deep brown eyes slowly lose their sharpness.

Unable to contain himself, Shawn puts a hand on the feverishly hot cheek of the man below him and smiles, almost kindly “That was a fantastically laid trap, dear.” his hand slides down to the wound picking at it, taking his bloodied fingers and bringing them to his mouth.

He can still taste the silver, and if the blood-loss doesn’t kill the aged hunter, the poison surely will. Shawn savours Bret’s flavour, noting how now is more intense than ever. Soon though, he becomes dizzy and has to purge the venom from his system. His eyes go completely white for a second as his power burns the concoction away.

“Damn, no wonder he went down before you did. Iridis was a bit of an overkill, wasn’t it?” He can’t help but to be impressed. The old Bret would have never been this crafty. He’d been a pain in his ass, in more ways than one, but never like this. Adaptability, he supposes, age no doubt making his more high risk manoeuvrers impractical at best. For what he can see he’s in fairly decent shape, if one forgets the man is at Death’s door, but even from here he can see a body slowly breaking down by years upon years of hunting. And it is a testament to the man’s ability, that he’s still here forty years in, after most of his friends, most of his blood, has fallen. What is more impressive though, is the fact that his name is still whispered in fear in certain circles, the ones that matter anyway.

The gash on his throat must have torn his vocal cords, otherwise he’d have insulted him half a dozen times by now. And Shawn finds himself missing this last chance to hear his voice. He’d always loved Bret’s voice even when he’d hated everything else.

“In your deathbed as it were, and you’re still judging me.” Shawn laughs, once upon a time he’d have stepped onto that half broken neck and finished the job just to erase that look in the other’s face. Now though, it fills him with sentiment. A sentiment he’s been holding at bay for twenty years that should feel like the blink of an eye to someone like him and yet feels like an eternity. He’s been blessed, he’s fallen, he has burned, and lied, and reaped, he has taken humans, their lives and their souls mere playthings in his hands, but all along he’s never loved, not like this. Nothing, not even all the fires of Hell can compare to this feeling. Damn, Shawn thinks closing his eyes, the hint of a smile dancing on his lips, who would have thought he’d be the one unable to move on.

“Well” Shawn says resigned, kneeling over Bret, his slacks ruined by all the blood. He takes a wicked looking dagger from the man’s belt and rips the sleeve of his shirt open with it. He takes a second to enjoy the hunter’s panicked expression, as even through the haze of impending death, Bret realizes what he’s about to do.

“You’re not gonna thank me for this.”

**Author's Note:**

> You might have noticed, if you're a frecuent reader of mine (thanks for that btw) that I'm kind of bipolar in my end notes...  
> I've forgotten the explanation, perhaps a review would refresh my memory...


End file.
